


The Man Drenched in Blue.

by writing_blockhead



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different Career Paths, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Inspired by I am Lapis Lazuli and Welcome to Night Vale, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Yuri!!! on Ice Cast Ensemble, and Makkachin isn't gonna be existent within Yuuri and Victor's life i'm sorry!!!!!, and this might be the weirdest serious yoi fic that you'll probably ever read, i also know nothing about euros so bear with me, i'll probably make a weird currency system there lmao, omg i forgot the most important tag, you'll see why!!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-26 20:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10794552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_blockhead/pseuds/writing_blockhead
Summary: There was a weird yet nice city located somewhere in Europe, but many people has traveled to and stayed for road trips, vacations or even permanent residence.There was a weird yet quaint city that people have heard to be unusual than a regular one in more ways than oneThere was a weird yet lovely city that has a beach named "Lazuli's Wings Beach."Near that very beach are buildings of various sizes and shapes and colors and features.In one building, there was an apartment.Inside the apartment were the residents, ranging from short, tall, lanky, stout, girl, boy, neither, both, all, colored, monochromed from many places and origins.And what's within room 239 is a man, sitting on the floor of the living room, crying, clawing his chest and making a wet mess of the room.And what lies in the man's chest is...





	1. In this Prologue, I Enter, but You're Not Here...?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mamang (hope you'll get hooked into this)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mamang+%28hope+you%27ll+get+hooked+into+this%29).



> you see why i didn't put our actual best boy Makkachin in the prologue? and maybe will not plan to althroughout the entirety of the fic?
> 
> also, expect terrible updating schedule bc i'm disorganized and unmotivated bc rp and defense DRAINED me......,,,,

It had been **a very long day** from work.

3 PM news, as much as it's relieving to Victor's work schedule, is meticulous. He's sure that no one really watches the 3 PM news—he thinks as the radio inside the bakery plays the local television news at precisely 4:19 PM, the time he gets out of the broadcast building—but Ms. Baranovskaya is a genius and maybe some sort of new level of the stereotypical strict librarian, just only located at his work station and his work being the local news.

(Ms. Baranovskaya is however, very proud at her strong and persevering crew, the influential set of reporters and reliable journalists. She is what would his roommate jokingly yet somehow wholeheartedly call "a lowkey show-off mom who wants to show how proud she is of her crew but doesn't want to break down her stern image.")

Time seems to slow down and also quicken its place once he steps inside the building when he goes to work and what feels like more than 10 hours of reading the script, familiarizing, shooting, checking for tomorrow's weather and preparing for when he comes back to work is actually **8** **excruciatingly long hours** of work, from 8:25 AM to 4:10 PM. The news reporter can help but sigh in exasperation as he hails a cab and thinks that he should actually time the hours he works.

Time seems to speed up once he steps inside the building when he goes to work and what feels like 13 hours of reading the script, familiarizing, shooting, checking for tomorrow's weather and preparing for when he comes back to work is actually 9 excruciatingly long hours of work, from 8:25 AM to 4:10 PM. The Russian can't help but sigh in exasperation as he hails a cab and thinks that he should actually time the hours he works.

"Maybe time actually does fasten up when we work," Victor ponders as the taxi gets near to him and he opens the door to get inside. After Victor told the driver their designated location, he slumped down into the less than plush seats and let his thoughts run wild. "Maybe that what makes Ms. Baranovskaya a good boss; she can deliberately flip a classy and well-manicured bird to time itself and make it slow down or fasten up by her will. We might be perceiving a tampered pace of time once we check-in our time cards and it goes back to its original pace once we go off-duty."

If there's a ringing that he can only hear and it signifies how much his head hurts, it's banging pot and pans and 9-1-1 sirens levels of loud that makes Victor wince, hiss visibly and pinch the bridge of his nose to hope for the best that it stops the hurt and the static of ringing. "Maybe having some sort of existential crisis against time makes your migraines worse," He mused, giving a pained bitter chuckle through gritted teeth.

"Tough day?" The taxi driver asked, sympathetically looking at the reporter slumped on their back seat with the back mirror of their cab, and then Victor nodded slowly in reply, afraid that his head will crack if he spoke. They chuckled, took their eyes back on the road and then cryptically commented, "Y'know, it _might_ get tougher even. Hope you can fight off whatever this day might throw in your way." Well, to Victor it was not only comforting, but cryptic. The general public might disagree with him otherwise.

Eh, the cogs in Victor's mind spin differently, moved smoothly at work and then slow when he crashes back home, and are sized randomly to each person in this weird yet comforting city. Not everyone is the same and yet, everyone—if not everyone, then most people—is willing to accept things that are different and make an effort to understand and adapt in this place. The man slumping on his seat began to wonder if it was the city's doing that he turned out to be this way, but nevertheless, he had let a smile creep into his face at the first memories of it.

Once upon a time, he was an actual Juniors skater, but at the age of 19 he was swept away from the skating rink he practices, from the St. Petersburg he moved to pursue his skating career, from Russia where he was born and raised, and then dropped off to an unknown city that he has never heard of and the rest is history. He grew up most of the time in his lonesome back in Russia, head too caught up in the world competitive skating and his aspirations, but the city wasn't bad. In fact, this is probably the most interaction he had with other people and the most joy he found.

Victor forgot why he was sent in here—his mother did—but he felt like he should thank her for the sudden change in his life and living in this weird yet life-changing city was something worth mentioning if she visits. (Twice a month she does.)

Despite the many faces that he can recognize and know, he's pretty sure that only one person had made his life in the city that made his living experience better.

The taxi stopped in an apartment building and Victor gave his words of gratitude and fare to the taxi driver once he's out. "Take care out there." They say, eyes worried and smile wide, juxtaposing each other. Victor tensed up for a bit and muttered back a wary, " _Sure_ , you too." in reply. Which was odd and albeit creepy if you will, Victor thinks.

The ominous words were concerning but also random, so the Victor Nikiforov in around 10 minutes ago didn't mind. The Victor Nikiforov in the 4 minute mark was in front of room 239, smiling and ready to be with his roommate and do whatever culturally diverse roommates do, which is being little shits or just being around each other, sticking like. Maybe watch something on Netflix, make more fried breaded pork chebureks or both. But the Victor Nikiforov in the time where it was 3 minutes until it happens was worried. There's no sound coming from the inside of his shared flat; no television nor music being played, no humming or whistling can be heard, **_nothing_**.

There was never such a thing called silence when he comes back home and his roommate is inside.

There's always a static noise—not the ones from TV, but like a repetition of noise, looped and reassuring.

But it was quiet. Too quiet. And the mab outside room 239 is beginning to suspect something.

"You okay there?" The 2-minute mark Victor Nikiforov croaks, suddenly worried. Anxiety attacks weren't new to both of them, and Victor knew better that he'd call if he's having one so he can comfort him by the phone. Actually going back in their flat to do his deed, if Ms. Baranovskaya and everyone else weren't too busy. Victor refuses to let his roomie have a terrible episode alone or unassisted and roomie himself was grateful for that, now unashamed for calling Victor or generally making him better.

He has one minute left until he sees the room where it happened and Victor is wary and stalling. "Maybe you're being a terrible friend and are about to spray me with a squirt gun," Victor blatantly yelling at the door so no further Little Shithead Shenanigans will be ensued. _"Like the last few times you did."_ 43 seconds have passed, thinking that he'll come out with a, "Damn it, I was _this_ **close**." with two fingers almost touching but with a picometer gap apart and in the other hand an even bigger squirt gun. But still no sound came to.

As the countdown ticks itself from 13 seconds, Victor waringly got his key out, unlocked the door and opened the door into the room. Nothing unusual in the short hallway. "Why do the architects even bother with this kind of layout remains a mystery." He grumbles, pulling out his shoes and socks; a thing that his roommate does and has rubbed off upon him, and began to walk into the living room.

5 seconds in, blue eyes spotted a pool of blue hued water on the edge of the room.

He runs into the living room for 2 seconds, drinking in quickly the watery blue mess in the room with eyes wide with a million thoughts and emotions running millions of miles per second.

The man used the remaining three seconds to notice any more damage or suspicious whatnots in the living room. A phone and some cluttered books lay on the coffee table, a mug had spilled whatever liquid was on the edge of said table, a spectrum of blue stains on the floor, walls and a bit on the couch, and an open window.

After 1 second passed, the mental countdown went to 0, and the Victor Nikiforov now gasped at the realization and his heart began to beat fast, as if a bomb dropped on him and the timer is now 1 second away from exploding.

Beats that aren't from joy or shock or surprise or exhaustion, but fear. Or panic or despair or even all.

A croak wiggled from the inside of his esophagus, passing through his vocal chords and projecting his jittery confusion into one shaky vocal execution, something that Ms. Baranovskaya will kill him if he ever had voice such as that in front of local television and the public spectators and masses. But she wasn't here, and Victor was mortified and he inquired to the empty space of the living room,

"Yuuri? Where are you?"

No such reply or shuffle of noises came.


	2. What He's Like.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to do some weird arithmetic that might explain the disappearance of your roommate or the mess in your living room, hopefully you can find both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri gets his introduction on this chapter! well, sort of. i'm not good with characterizing fictional characters because when i write, i see the world as them and it's a No Bueno™ for me when writing in general. but i hope there's still bits of canon Victor and Yuuri. by the way, Yuuri and Victor have a three year age gap, so Yuuri is 24 while Victor is 27.
> 
> also warning: graphic descriptions of domestic roommates, approach if naka-shield na ka bes.

Yuuri Katsuki is Victor Nikiforov's roommate for three years. Anyone can obviously see that because their full names are on top of each other in the mailbox.

He is a 24-year old Japanese male with brown eyes, hidden behind blue square-rimmed spectacles, and black hair that Victor could only describe as "casually messy." He wants to teach simple Robotics to high school students, but he's working as a video editor as of the moment, so his work space is the apartment and his computer and he doesn't have to wear stuffy suits as a uniform, which Victor is still salty about. They both haven't moved out to their own places because both Yuuri and Victor were melted glue sticks; once the fire burned, they became malleable, stuck to one another and as time passes, the bond hardens and it won't budge.

He likes a plethora of things, such as; dogs, poodles is his favorite breed of doggo, video games, many forms of art, cooking with Victor (because it always end up good with food and bad with the cleanliness of the kitchen), whatever escapade Victor will drag him off to (because it's always a good time, no matter how stupid the idea is), Victor's tiny extra closet for Yuuri (in case there's no appropriate clothes for a certain occasion or everyone objectively agrees that Yuuri chose to dress badly), Victor Yuliavich Nikiforov, the color blue and possibly its entire spectrum and music, especially chiptune, chillstep, pop rock and lofi hip hop, which Victor lovingly jeers as "Yuuri's hipster taste music."

("Victor, it's not hipster music," He protests, trying to snatch his phone back from his roommate but _curse his legs and also Victor's legs;_ the height difference is a **_royal_**   ** _pain in the ass._** "It's from Joji and he's on trending in YouTube with his new single!"

He giggles like the cheeky dork he is and then asks the shorter man, "Do **I** know who Joji is, Yuuri?" The editor shakes his head in reply, still trying to reach out for his phone.

"Does Chris know him? He has great music taste, so he should've recommended it to me a while ago."

"You have a point, and also no."

"Then it's hipster and you're hipster by default. Several combinations of your clothes might say so." Victor declares, expression serious yet the air around him smug and light. He'll never Yuuri and his music taste down, until now.)

Yuuri is rather reserved; likes his alone time or just having a few people to interact to. In his case, Victor, a man with traits opposite to him, and by some sort of social link miracle, he got along well with the charismatic Russian and open up to him. And to Victor, he thought Yuuri will easily retract to his shell and the air between them will always be awkward and full of uh's, um's, well's and the general thought of, "How the hell am I gonna talk to this cute guy?" That's probably because it did happen in the first few weeks of being officially roommates; not too much of an introduction.

Until more weeks pass, the space decreases between them, the uh's, um's and well's are only uttered when one of them rambles and the atmosphere gets filled with their laughter, groans, rants, vents, conversations, impromptu singing sessions with the occasional duets and even comfortable silence. After years of living under the same roof, their relationship had solidified. Victor knows that Yuuri can be the life of a party if he's sold to the idea, can play a pretty mean prank if he wants to and loves to jab and poke and have fun with Victor and his friends even, and Yuuri, in return, knows that behind the necessary charms and images is a huge Russian dork that hits his giant forehead on the cupboards by accident, loves to drag him into crazy places, events and trips that Yuuri ends up loving it all and someone that he really trusts with all his heart.

One more thing about Yuuri is that this boy is prone to anxiety attacks and even though he had lived his life calming himself after an attack alone, Victor would absolutely drop everything to help the poor Japanese man. Distance is a mere concept to the other man when his best friend is feeling like his chest might constrict too much and his breathing is too deep; the news reporter would call and speak comforting caring nothings through the electromagnetic waves, the air and the signal tower just to reach the ears of Yuuri, calming his wracking sobs and slow down his quick intake of oxygen. But if they were in the same room, Victor would softly ask Yuuri to take deep breaths in intervals, ground himself into this current reality they're in and distract him by talking to the man about light topics, even if he doesn't reply.

And the bespectacled man thanked whatever deities above blessed him with an amazing human being such as Victor Nikiforov for his patience and consideration when he helps him through an attack.

Letting his own hands squeeze Victor's biceps, burying his face on to the other man's shoulder to cry on and inhale his faded cologne, hugging him when Yuuri needs it the most and whatever is saying so that Yuuri can get distracted and go away from his own thoughts is usually Victor's regimen to let up the storm off Yuuri's head.

As much as the Russian news reporter never thought of anything else when Yuuri still has his head on the thunderstorm clouds, Yuuri _was weird_ when he has attacks.

No, not that kind of sense that anxiety attacks are weird, nor is Yuuri—actually, both Victor and Yuuri are weird. But in a general sense, Victor doesn't think nor speak of ill will when Yuuri has his attacks. But he has dubious suspicions when it comes of the Japanese man's unstable state, both mentally and literally.

The city he and Yuuri lives in is both weird and amazing in many ways, and both of them had a fair share of the peculiarities they've seen.

However, has Victor ever seen someone who turns into a water-like consistency, cry tears of the deepest depths of the sea and literally turn blue when they have their attack?

It's only Yuuri who can do that, but he kept his mouth shut about it, fearing that it might affect the man, even outside his anxiety attacks.

Whenever he envelopes the sobbing man into an embrace and stroke his black hair slowly and softly, it feels like the new reporter is putting his hands in to a flow of water. In fact, his whole body feels like water shaped into a Yuuri Katsuki-sized human being with blue spreading out slowly from his arms, neck and legs, and when Victor holds Yuuri's hands, it feels firm but squishy, like a water balloon. His normally bright brown eyes turn glossy and light, as if the brown is being washed away from a mirror or a reflective surface.  And of course, he gets damp after hugging Yuuri and he does make the place wet.

Thankfully, the editor goes back to his old non-water based normal self when his attack is over, and everything hadn't blown over once Victor's around or has his guidance.

Until now.

He had looked around and beckoned the missing man in the rooms, from bedroom, his own bedroom, bathroom, the laundry area, the joint dining room, kitchen and living room area, and hell, even the only known hiding spots Yuuri uses. But there's no Yuuri in any of them.

"Okay, calm down, Nikiforov." Victor reassured himself, making way for logic and reason in his panicking head. "Maybe, maybe Yuuri went out for groceries. Yeah, food and necessities, we both need that! Wait, no, we just did our groceries two days ago. No, no, no, he's fine. Maybe he was out to hang out? People can do that by themselves! I can! Yuuri might be with that Phichit guy, photogenic photographer? Yeah, no, fuck, he said this morning he'll be working so he'll be stuck here."

With the cogs creaking and cranking in his brain, he paced around the place, going to one spot to another. "Okay, he might've bought more meds!" Victor babbled, resting his hand on the wet windowpane. "Shit, no, I already bought him extra!" He groaned and rested now both of his hands on the wet surface, groaning and leaning his weight to his hands. "Yuuri, _where are you?_ " He croaked, eyes shut and head down. "This is really bad. **Real, real bad...** "

The man trailed off his train of audible thought when he opened his eyes and saw what's in front of him; blue water splattered around the window pane. The same water that's in the living room. He brought his hand up, wiped his inded finger wet and rubbed it with his thumb. "Still feels like regular water," He muses to himself, feeling the viscosity of the unusually colored liquid. "Just blue, though." He craned his head to look back on the mess in the room and took note that the window he's near is the only one opened, back to his hand, and then outside the window and beyond the scene of his home.

The apartment that he and Yuuri live in is the tallest building around their area, overlooking the tinier establishments below them. The roofs and signs were the only things you can see if you're at the eighth floor, which the two roommates and other tenants reside in, and what used to be blank and pristine have splotches of wet blue liquid dripping on the walls or puddled up on the flat surfaces. There's a trail going straight from the man's location, going to God knows where and God knows why.

But it's clear that Yuuri is the root of all of this and Yuuri might have the want to go close to a body of water. The poor man must've got an attack and forgot to call, and he gradually grows worse and worse, more water, more damage, more tears, until he escaped by the window and ran (or fly, Victor isn't certain)."Where would he go?" Victor wails, feeling like his arms are filled with something akin to the motion of static. "There's no resorts or swimming pools near this area; only on the other side of the city—"

The Russian's blue eyes were looking dead on to what's in front of him. Well, not literally, but what's beyond the low roofs of the neighboring buildings and houses and following where the trail of water leads to straight on. If there's no resorts nor pools near their apartment and Yuuri has a compelling urge to get into the nearest water source but he didn't go to their bathroom, the only reasonable choice would be—

" **The beach.** Yuuri went to the beach after this happened."

He quickly grabbed again his keys, wallet and phone and dashed into the door, putting back his shoes on. The man steps outside the apartment, but doesn't lock the door yet. He looks expectantly at the inside, hoping that maybe, maybe it's all just a fatigue-induced hallucination and Yuuri is just there, looking at him as if he was crazy and he's been here all the time, waiting for his return. Maybe he'll even coax Victor to "sit and relax his ass down the couch" as he'll make his mom's comfort food back at home, and they'll eat it together. He clenches his jaw, waiting for this dream or nightmare to be over.

But nobody was there.

Victor solemnly locks the door and closes it, letting it have a moment of peace instead of him. He runs towards the elevator as he frantically taps the screen of his phone, typing something in the search bar. "Google, you haven't failed to look at the necessary sources I needed during my research paper," He mutters, pressing the ground floor button when he enters the elevator. "So I hope you can provide. No, you  _will_ provide."

As the doors close and he makes his descent, the lone man taps in foot in haste and jitter. He got no plans to follow and no friends to assist him. Christophe Giacometti, his coworker and other best friend, would know what to do—for some reason he seems to know a lot of things—and would actually assist him along the way. But that leaves him out of the equation for he is going to propose to his long-term boyfriend, Masa Songworks, and he prepared a lot. People like Masa are proposed by solo ballads with the (subjectively) perfect romantic atmosphere, so it takes dedication, care and precision so Chris and Masa will have an even more guaranteed engagement.

So he was alone.

But Victor still trudges forward, even if he has no heads nor tails on what's going on with his roommate or what's he going to do.

All he can do is hope and pray that he can do this.

"Please let Google searches provide," Victor chants as the elevator goes down and down and down. "Please let Google searches provide."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeeeee boiiii second chapter boiiii
> 
> also can you see my basic bitch love for lofi hip hop music yep i bet you can
> 
> please let me feed on the feedback so i can give you back Quality™ in a snap and in a flash i'll dash to fix a blemish or a rash and i apologize because there's no beta reader i can compromise and in the certain future i hope it lies a speedy update to delight you and i and this is the end of my note so byeeeee.


	3. Somewhere,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt this one certain train of events to see another certain train of events here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohohoho.
> 
> Ohohohohoho.
> 
> OHOHOHOHOHOHO.
> 
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) something's happening somewhere.
> 
> warning, though; there's assumptions of a suicide attempt and there's some people who got burned and the other got the cold shoulder.

Somewhere, there were two boys, having their afternoon stroll by the boardwalks by the beach.

Somewhere, they talked about unusual their city is, but still gives praises on how wonderful it is.

Somewhere, those boys are named Yuri Plisetsky, a hotheaded boy with a silver tongue, and Otabek Altin, an objectively cool guy with a heart of gold and looks of street fashion, and they're close friends, bond of camaraderie still fresh.

Somewhere, as they kept walking and talking, Otabek's black irises managed to catch something that made him stuck in his breath, stop walking and squint at the distance as his friend gets caught up by his spiel and kept walking.

Somewhere, Yuri halted when he didn't hear his friend replying or by his side, and then saw him looking at something, thus walking back to ask what's wrong.

Somewhere, there's a cliff by the sea that looms over the waters.

Somewhere, two pairs of eyes saw a hunched curled-up figure on the cliff, sitting down dangerously on the edge.

Somewhere, Yuri and Otabek ran towards the shore of the city's beach, one heading out to the cliff to get the person to step away from the edge, and the other coaxing them to not do anything drastic.

Somewhere, the hotheaded boy, although isn't good at sympathetic comfort, yelled at the top of his lungs, "Hey, you there, you at the cliff! Whatever you do, **don't** do anything stupid or morally wrong! I'm here distracting you from doing that and my friend is gonna get you away from there so you won't freeze your ass off and drown! We can help you and talk about your problems after we get you down!"

Somewhere, hands touching the ground clench hard at the muffled yet mocking grating sound of voices that should mean no ill yet it does, spiking hatred and pain on their chest.

Somewhere, Yuri kept yelling his loud motivation to the person up the cliff and then he stopped abruptly when his emerald eyes had seen something he wished he could've noticed sooner.

Somewhere, the boy who was yelling a moment ago stumbled backwards, eyes wide in fear as he witnessed what's happening.

Somewhere, the sea felt someone beckon out for it to be used.

Somewhere, the ocean heard the misery of someone nearby and then complied.

Somewhere, there are copious amounts of water rising up above towards the man on the cliff, volume increasing and size growing as it rises.

Somewhere, the other boy, Otabek, finally drew himself near the hunched figure on the edge and with a steady voice to mask his apprehension, he said, "Excuse me? I'm with the guy screaming his ass off, so don't freak out, okay? Like he said at first, I'll help you move out from there."

Somewhere, the boy drew himself closer to the figure, incomprehensible utters they mutter grew louder.

Somewhere, the cogs of Otabek's head spun too late as he thought, "Their skin is unnaturally dark. Almost like...blue?"

Somewhere, a pair of blank reflective eyes met with dark brown-almost black ones.

Somewhere, a sorrowful face met with a shocked one.

Somewhere, a hardened scowl crawled up to the person's features.

Somewhere, a hand clenching the ground on it snapped up, as if to bring something up.

Somewhere, amorphous tendrils of water rose, looming over the both of them.

Somewhere, the person growled, hand smacking, air as they screeched,

" **S T A Y   A W A Y   F R O M   M E !   I ' M   N O T   W O R T H Y  O F   Y O U R   P I T Y !** "

Somewhere, a mass of freezing almost sub-zero degree levels of water hits a boy on the cliff, smacking him down to the shore.

Somewhere, the boy down the shore tries to run away to call for help and escape, but tendrils form, grab the running boy and pulled him inside the watery cage.

Somewhere, pale skin scalded by hot boiling water.

Somewhere, a boy suffocates as his skin hurts and he feels cold and cold and cold and so cold.

Somewhere, the person stands up and looks down below.

Somewhere, the masses of water leaves the boy drowning boys and goes back to the sea.

Somewhere, a man chokes up and cries more, chest feeling more constricted than the first time back at his home.

Somewhere, a man rises from the cliff, floating and getting surrounded by more tendrils of water as if it was protecting him.

Somewhere, the boys scrambled and limped away from shore, calling the emergency hotline with their phones that miraculously survived.

Somewhere, Yuri gasped as Otabek holds out his hand, needing something to hold on.

Somewhere, Yuri knows it'll be painful for him, but he let the staggering cold boy lean on him, and the scalded boy elicited a painful cry when cold skin touches his own.

Somewhere, tears spill from Otabek's eyes as he slurs, "Yuri...side's hot. Hurt..."

Somewhere, his friend hisses and replies, "It hurts too, Bek! But I'm gonna get us safe, okay? Stay a little longer when the paramedics comes, okay?"

Somewhere, Otabek just nods as he silently cries of hurt and Yuri helping him out.

Somewhere, a man breaks.

Somewhere, both hot and cold tears spill from a man's eyelids.

Somewhere, a man croaks his woes out **—**

**no no no no no no no no no no no what did i do oh no i did that to those boys they were trying to be nice and help no no no no no no but im not worthy of being helped i need to do things by myself but i made them hurt by my selfishness no im such an idiot why did i drown them why am i like this why why why why this is all my fault if i werent so cold and selfish maybe people wouldnt get hurt and i wont have to hurt them if i werent so useless maybe this weight in my chest will go away maybe if i maybe if i if im if im if if im im—**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was terrible, i know. i'm not too good in writing angst, lmao.
> 
> and i'm sorry if my depiction of anxiety isn't too accurate to real life, i'm not good in writing mental illnesses and i didn't have enough time to research for anxiety, considering that it's a very broad topic unlike hypothermia and second-degree burns/scalding, so take my writing with grain of salt.

**Author's Note:**

> it started with me, drawing Yuuri sad. then sadder. then before i knew it, i've drawn him into a Lapis Lazuli gem. then another Lapis Lazuli gem, but sadder and his gem broken. and this was born.
> 
> updates will be slow, forgive me once again, and give me the Feedback™ because i'm not a native English speaker and i have no beta reader!


End file.
